


genesis

by snowborn



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Getting Back Together, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Break Up, Post-Canon, Relationship Study, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-20
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-28 21:14:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30145689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowborn/pseuds/snowborn
Summary: Falling apart and falling together: a study in seven parts.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou, Akaashi Keiji/Miya Osamu, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 52





	genesis

**Author's Note:**

> i was inspired to write this bc i saw a tweet once that said not enough bkak fics are written from bokuto's POV, and. true! so i challenged myself to write this. i hope i did him justice <3 
> 
> (also wanted an excuse to write adorable and cute and three-dimensional akaashi keiji)
> 
> header titles from the poem 'origin story' by sarah kay and phil kaye.
> 
> enjoy ! <3

**i will meet you for the first time, again and again**

At age twenty-five, Bokuto catches sight of Akaashi Keiji at the local Ozeki and immediately expects to have a heart attack. (Just picture the headline: _Professional volleyball player sees long-time ex-boyfriend in supermarket and suffers heart attack; does not die, because what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger._ Or something like that.)

As it goes, Bokuto’s blocking the entrance to the aisle, one hand fisted in his windbreaker, right over his chest, and the other holding a six-pack of Asahi beer; Akaashi’s gazing right back at him through his crooked glasses, layered in a beige coat and gray sweater and navy blue turtleneck and jeans to ward off the autumn chill, clutching a box of chocolate Pocky like a lifeline, mouth dropped open in surprise. His hair is longer now, ruffled and wavy like he’s just woken up. A standoff in the middle of the snack aisle. If Kuroo were here, he would have pointed and laughed; if Kenma were here, he would have taken a picture of the two of them and edited in some cowboy hats and thigh holsters and guns and _Tokyo ain’t big enough for the two of us_ written out in big wavy block letters, as though they were enemies in an old western film (which they may as well have been, considering the shitstorm that was their last meeting five years ago). 

It would have been funny, if it weren’t so dire.

It is with absolutely certainty that Bokuto can say this -- it has been five years, and Akaashi is still beautiful, and Akaashi is licking his lips, and Akaashi is opening his mouth to say something, and -- Bokuto’s heart thumps steadily, rhythmic and soothing like the push and pull of the tides. Akaashi is speaking. Bokuto isn’t having a heart attack. 

_Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump._

_Bokuto-san, would you like to go for coffee?_

Bokuto answers, vaguely aware of the garbled, _Y-yeah, yes, I would like that, Akaashi, I’d like to go for coffee with you_ that spews forth from his mouth with an embarrassing quickness, but he can’t stop staring at Akaashi, who was lovely at sixteen, at seventeen, at eighteen -- who is even lovelier at twenty-four, now that he’s sharper and more comfortable in his grace. 

Akaashi smiles, a gentle curl of the lip that sets Bokuto on fire. Not for the first time, Bokuto wonders if he could do this again, lay himself bare to Akaashi’s hands and wait with baited breath for his judgment. They had always been experts, where the other was concerned, but the time for that is long past. 

Still. Bokuto is twenty-five and swept headlong into the current of desire that has only ever made itself known at the sight of Akaashi’s face, desperate to take in every inch of the boy who had been the love of his young life. All at once, he thinks -- _Yes, I’d do it a hundred times over because it’s you._ Feels his heart beat on stubbornly, a drum beat stretching on for infinity -- reminiscent of a fracturing sunset, and a humid locker room, and the beautiful boy before him, enveloped in cerulean blue.

**when the walls come down**

Bokuto should have known something would go wrong tonight, judging from the tight-lipped way Sakusa had rejected the team’s usual post-game drinking ritual. That, in particular, wasn’t anything out of the ordinary -- but then Atsumu had slammed his locker door, red rage written into the stiff set of his shoulders, and stalked off without so much as a snarky comment or a well-timed middle finger. Hinata had followed him with a frazzled, _Ah, it’ll be fun, Osamu-san is coming out tonight! See you there, Bokuto-san,_ radiating enough frenetic energy to spark a fire that would, undoubtedly, burn the gym and its surroundings to the ground. 

Really, it was just a normal practice day with the Black Jackals.

But more than that -- it had been an off day for Bokuto as well, unbearable in seventy different ways. Bokuto feels the itch under his skin, the blistering mortification of getting caught up in his thoughts and approaching two or three steps late, lacking the sharp flick of the wrist, every ball entrusted to him sent flying out of bounds. Atsumu had been incredibly patient for the most part, adjusting easily to Bokuto’s deficits with a smirk, but by the end of practice there had been an uneasy thrumming in the air that Bokuto had chalked up to his own mistakes. _Too much, too much, too late._

The thing is -- he should have trusted his gut, should have just ended the day there with the hope that tomorrow would be better; then he would’ve been able to pick up some gyudon, go home, and indulge in a warm coconut-scented bubble bath, accompanied by a glass of ice-cold soda and the most recent episode of his favorite drama. 

Instead, Bokuto gets a sharp elbow to the ribs every time Atsumu reaches over him for the water pitcher. Hinata’s constant fidgeting against Bokuto’s other side is his attempt to be respectful of Sakusa’s personal space, except that it means every other spoonful of Bokuto’s food ends up splattered on the table instead of in his mouth. On top of all of that, _as if that weren’t enough_ , Bokuto is the sole, reluctant front-row seater to the Miya Osamu and Akaashi Keiji Show, in which Osamu spoon-feeds Akaashi bites of dinner during the lulls in conversation. 

Honestly -- and Bokuto is _not_ above thinking this -- it feels very much like a personal attack, made even worse by the fact that Bokuto can’t tear his eyes away from Akaashi and his mussed hair and his crooked glasses, looking both so familiar and so new that it tugs Bokuto’s heart in thirteen different directions.

“Ah, Bokuto-san,” Osamu calls, arm slung loosely around Akaashi’s shoulders. The way his eyes crinkle at the corners seems vaguely threatening to Bokuto, who is too busy actively suppressing his finicky gag reflex to feel anything but sick to his stomach. “Mind passing the soy sauce?” It may as well be a warning shot.

“Of course, Myaa-sam!” Except that when Bokuto reaches for it, wedged between Hinata’s glass of water and Sakusa’s bowl of rice, his hand accidentally brushes against Akaashi’s. Akaashi freezes, then pulls away as though burned; Bokuto’s fingers curve decisively around the thin neck of the bottle as he hands it to Osamu, who watches them lazily. His eyes are a different shade of blue -- deeper, darker. Shadow, where Akaashi’s are bright.

Osamu is meticulous as he scoops up a perfect dollop of wasabi with his chopsticks, scraping it into a small dish and pouring a generous amount of soy sauce over it. He responds jovially to one of Hinata’s comments as he mixes, careful not to bump Akaashi, who is sipping at his water with surprising steadiness, though his refusal to even look in Bokuto’s direction speaks volumes. 

It happens slowly then, every frame burned into Bokuto’s brain like a mocking brand -- Osamu’s chopsticks reaching for a piece of salmon nigiri; Osamu dipping the sushi in wasabi-soy sauce; Osamu clicking his tongue and turning Akaashi’s face to him with a hand beneath his chin -- _Keiji, say ahh_ ; Akaashi, mouth falling open obediently, pink tongue peeking out; Akaashi’s lips stretched wide around the nigiri, then closing around the chopsticks.

“Excuse me,” Bokuto says loudly, shooting up from his seat. It’s very embarrassing to be experiencing such emotional and sexual upheaval in the middle of this izakaya, barred on both sides by his teammates, because now everyone’s staring and he can’t fucking escape. God, his throat is as dry as the desert. Is it hot in here? Think of something else. Think of -- Kuroo-chan peeing in the genkan, all over everyone’s shoes. Think of long words -- sanctimonious, bioluminescent, _appendage_? Fucking hell. Think of anything but the vision of Akaashi’s lips, licking -- stretching -- curling -- 

“You good, Bokkun?” Atsumu asks curiously, clutching a piece of fatty tuna with his chopsticks, and Bokuto all but knocks it out of the way to leap over him, ignoring Atsumu’s offended _Bokkun!_ and the laughter that has sprung up in his wake as he waddles to the bathroom with his hands over his crotch. 

The bathroom is thankfully empty when Bokuto slams into one of the stalls, locking it with shaky hands and pressing his back against the door. The bulge in his sweatpants grows more and more insistent. He could rub one out here -- _Ambivalent. Preposterous. Serendipity_. Stop! Bokuto scrubs his hands over his face and through his gelled hair, contemplating the merits of sneaking out through the high window when the bathroom door creaks open ominously, followed by tentative footsteps. It can’t be Osamu, so it’s gotta be --

“Bokuto-san?” Akaashi says. He’s so close, standing right outside the door, and Bokuto glares down at his boner, willing it to die.

“I’m fine, Akaashi! Just… bathroom things,” Bokuto responds awkwardly. All of the tension swirling in his gut right now is making him weak in the knees. He can hear Akaashi’s breathing through the crack in the stall, wants so badly to throw the door open and take him in his arms. He can’t. He can’t. He can’t.

“I--” Akaashi breathes, then the sound of shoes shuffling against the tile distracts Bokuto before he stops in front of the stall once more, his shadow eclipsing the fluorescent light peeking into the tiny cubicle. “I wanted to apologize. Neither of us knew you would be coming tonight.”

_Well, that makes three of us_. Bokuto sighs, scratching at the side of his face. He’ll need to shave again soon. “There’s nothing to apologize for, Akaashi.”

“Bokuto-san, I also wanted to… to apologize for --”

“Please don’t.” Bokuto’s erection has wilted almost comically in its neglect, and in its place a burgeoning ache is taking shape. _Please don’t apologize,_ he begs, _because then I really won’t be able to stop thinking of you. As if I had ever stopped in the first place._ The exhaustion hits him hard then, fatigue settling deep in his bones. Oh, what he would give to be at home and far away from this mess. 

There’s silence, interrupted only by harsh breathing. Bokuto’s heartbeat roars in his ears like waves crashing against the shoreline, all-consuming. Will he make it out of here alive to find out what happens to Ri Jeong-hyeok and Yoon Se-ri? He hopes so, but only time will tell.

The next time Akaashi speaks, it’s a near whisper. “Okay,” he says resolutely, voice breaking. He hesitates for a moment, then his footsteps are fading. 

The door opens. He’s gone. It is only long after Akaashi’s left that Bokuto realizes his nails are digging crescents into the meat of his palms, a stinging reminder of the desire he’d thought was lost to time.

**when the thunder rumbles**

Spring rolls around lazily with the endless pounding of sneakers across the gym floor, palms raw and red and aching, the sharp tang of Salonpas thick in the air, and the sweet hope of advancing to the Tokyo playoffs heralded by the first fragrant blooms of the season. 

The hope dies abruptly, strangled by careless hands; Harukou ends with a decisive, set-losing smack of the ball just an inch out of bounds, courtesy of a wild-eyed, second-year Bokuto who is ‘all muscle and no discipline,’ according to his upperclassmen behind closed doors. With that, Itachiyama moves on to the playoffs; Fukurodani stays behind.

In a corner of the locker room, Bokuto sits with his head tucked between his knees, pads pulled down to his ankles and eyes squeezed shut. He recalls the safety of being small and huddling beneath the dinner table, wishes for somebody to hold him, please, he just needs to be held. _Take deep breaths,_ he reminds himself, wills into the front of his mind the unhurried touch of his sisters’ hands carding through his hair and soothing his shoulders, attempting to coax him back to relative homeostasis. It doesn’t work, even as his upperclassmen come around to pat him solidly on the back and tell him to keep his chin up, don’t mind it, we’ll get them next time. 

The apologies catch in Bokuto’s throat like hot stones, the shame burning sweet and sticky in his gut. He’s never been a very good loser. 

“Bokuto-senpai,” comes a soft voice. Bokuto’s head feels sleep-heavy, a leaden weight balanced precariously on the teetering pole of his neck, and he can’t be bothered to raise it; still, he’d know that voice anywhere. Akaashi, the first-year setter, wanders over to his corner with all the grace of a baby deer, knobby-kneed, sneakers scuffing the locker room floor. 

Akaashi, who had spent most of the game burning a hole in the bench, is an interesting new fixture in Bokuto’s life; he indulges Bokuto’s whims at practice with single-minded focus, learns his changing moods as though he’s examining curriculum material to be tested on, always hangs behind afterward to set one more ball for him. Bokuto is reminded of a day long past, almost ordinary in its simplicity -- the first time Akaashi had sent him a ball so perfect, slicing through the orange slivers of sunset coming through the gym windows in an arc so sharp that Bokuto had smacked it down in the blink of an eye, the cleanest cross-court shot he had achieved yet. He remembers that ambitious glint lighting up blue blue eyes, remembers the aching stretch of a smile across his own face as he thinks, _This could be the start of a beautiful new friendship_.

“Don’t come any closer, Akaashi,” Bokuto sniffs noisily, rubbing his face against the sweat-grimy skin of his arms. No one should have to see him in his shame, least of all his precious underclassman. “I might infect you with my _failure_!”

“Failure is not contagious, Bokuto-senpai,” Akaashi says calmly. His fists twist the hem of his jersey. “You… played very well today.”

“That can’t be true, I’m the reason we lost the game!” The slow rustle of clothing and disappointed murmurs and fading footsteps have all but disappeared; the tightness in Bokuto’s chest loosens, thread by wavering thread. Akaashi hums, mulling over Bokuto’s answer, so thoughtful in that measured way of his. ‘Wise beyond his years,’ his upperclassmen boast proudly, ruffling his mop of wavy hair. 

It’s quiet -- then, tentatively, “Actually, you only lost us one point, Bokuto-senpai. If we’re going off of that, then technically Ikeda-senpai lost us the game. Itachiyama’s ace scored at least seven points off him alone.” Akaashi drops down next to Bokuto, crossing his deer-legs, and Bokuto’s pulled from the woolen confines of his head at the brush of Akaashi’s bird-bone shoulder against his own. Akaashi fixes him with a stern look. “But volleyball isn’t an individual’s game, Bokuto-senpai. There are five other people on the court with you at all times. It’s clear that you trust them, but you have to trust yourself, too. You’re a very talented player, Bokuto-senpai. The best I’ve ever seen.”

“Hey, hey, Akaashi,” Bokuto says shakily, finally lifting his head from its cradle of limbs. The watery smile he sends Akaashi conveys only a fraction of the swelling and crashing going on inside of him, a dam near-splintering by the force of rushing water. “That was really mature of you. And smart! How’d you get so smart?” 

Akaashi huffs a breath through his nose, flushing pink. “I read a lot.” 

“Yeah?” Bokuto asks, visibly perking up. The tears spill a little, sliding down the red apples of his cheeks, but he’s on his way to feeling better. Akaashi’s like a bandage, or a miracle cure. “What kinds of things do you read, Akaashi?” 

“Nothing you’d be interested in, probably,” Akaashi picks at his fingernails, properly buffed and shiny in preparation for today, only to go unused. Motivated by pure instinct, Bokuto’s hands shoot out to cradle them carefully. Akaashi stiffens, and Bokuto’s about to pull away, certain he’s fucked up yet again, and then Akaashi smiles softly. Bokuto feels as though he’s been made aware of a secret that nobody else knows. “I like books about marine biology,” Akaashi mumbles.

“Marine biology is so cool!” Bokuto says encouragingly, scooting closer until he and Akaashi are pressed together, their faces just inches apart. It doesn’t occur to Bokuto that he probably smells like waning deodorant and drying sweat because all he can think about is how Akaashi’s so close, and he smells so good, and he’s so smart. He could talk forever, and Bokuto would listen. “Say, Akaashi, do you know any cool facts?” 

“Ah,” Akaashi licks his lips, a nervous gesture. He’s even pinker than he was before, to the tips of his ears and down the column of his neck. Bokuto wonders faintly how much further it can go. “What do you want to know?”

“Oh, oh! I like jellyfish,” Bokuto declares. Akaashi’s so warm. Why was he sad again? “Do you know anything cool about jellyfish?” 

“Hmm,” Akaashi hums, lips pursed slightly. He meets Bokuto’s eyes, a shy thing, then says, “Bokuto-senpai, did you know that jellyfish have been around since before dinosaurs ever roamed the earth?”

“Wow, that makes them really old!” Bokuto says, wide-eyed. “Older than my grandparents! And yours too, probably.”

“I think you might be right about that,” Akaashi laughs, a phenomenon not widely observed in nature. It brightens up the whole place, hits Bokuto like a punch to the gut. “What is it that you like about jellyfish, Bokuto-senpai?”

“That’s easy! I like that they float from place to place without a care in the world, just going with the flow.” Bokuto pauses; Akaashi’s eyes never leave him. “I wouldn’t want to be one, though. I just like that they seem so relaxed all the time. Except when they’re stinging people!”

Akaashi opens his mouth to respond, but Konoha peeks his head around the corner of the lockers. “Coach wants us to do stretches behind the gym,” he says, casting a curious glance at their entangled hands. 

“We’ll be right there, Konoha!” Bokuto says, standing and pulling Akaashi to his feet. Konoha’s already walking away, minding his own business like the good soul he is, but the spell is broken; the back of Bokuto’s neck feels hot as he stares at Akaashi, who is back to nervously twisting his fingers in the hem of his jersey. “Thank you for talking to me, oh wise Akaashi! I feel a lot better now!” 

Akaashi’s cheeks must be permanently stained pink now. Pink like cherry blossoms. “You’re welcome, Bokuto-senpai. Your jellyfish fact was very inspiring.”

“Oh, Akaashi -- you know you can just call me Bokuto-san,” Bokuto insists, dusting off his uniform. Akaashi makes a strangled noise that makes Bokuto’s chest feel funny, and then Akaashi’s turning on his heel to make his way out of the locker room, leaving Bokuto beaming like a fool to himself.

**when nobody else is home**

The moon is barely starting to rise as Bokuto and Akaashi head back to their neighborhood. Bokuto’s big celebratory dinner had gone off without a hitch; they had made it through with only two instances of mild sulking, and both had easily been rectified by the warmth of Akaashi’s hand on the back of Bokuto’s neck and a plate piled high with barbecue. Shirofuku had just shared a look with Suzumeda over her drink, chuckling, _Can you believe this guy? Going pro, and he still needs his babysitter._

Bokuto had begun to huff and puff in preparation of an actual offended answer on Akaashi’s behalf, almost upending half of the table. How could you ever look at Akaashi -- wonderful, beautiful, hard-working, talented, and patient Akaashi, the smartest and kindest person in Bokuto’s world -- and reduce him to a babysitter! It’s a crime! 

But Akaashi the not-babysitter had only replied, _He could do it all without me,_ and then Komi had gone on to spill his _ramune_ near the grill at the end of the table, and then everyone’s attention had been diverted to the mess, and Bokuto had deflated like a sad little balloon, despite all the yakiniku undoubtedly propping up all of his bodily organs from the inside. 

Forget what Shirofuku said. How could _Akaashi_ think Bokuto didn’t need him? Did he not need Bokuto? It was hard to wrap his mind around. There wasn’t much he thought he could accomplish without Akaashi at his side. Truthfully, he didn’t even want to try.

Still, the rigid weight of Akaashi’s hand in his makes their leisurely walk home seem much more somber than usual, as if the trees and the grass and the black cat on the corner are all holding their breath in anticipation. For what, Bokuto isn’t quite sure, until Akaashi stops abruptly in the middle of the empty sidewalk and a very ugly fear seizes Bokuto, a split-second plunge into ice water before Akaashi cracks his heart in two.

“I think we should take a break, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi utters in a voice so soft that it seems to carry on the wind. The breeze whips at his cheeks, painting him orange-pink in the face of a dying sunset. _It’s for the best_ , he continues, not meeting Bokuto’s eyes, but his words filter like static through one of Bokuto’s ears and lodge themselves firmly in his brain. 

Bokuto never thinks about them, but they never really leave.

He lets go of Bokuto’s hand, takes a step back. The earth is shaking beneath Bokuto’s feet, or maybe his legs are shaking. He can’t tell the difference. It is a simple fact that Bokuto is far from perfect -- he is too moody and too needy and too whiny and too earnest and gets sucked into his head and can’t function without validation and probably seventy-two other reasons listed in that journal Akaashi thinks he doesn’t know about, but it’s been a year and none of that had ever been a problem. Or at least Akaashi had made it seem like it wasn’t a problem. 

A whole year, come and gone. Had it been long enough for Akaashi to see inside him? Had it been enough to make him want to leave?

“But, Akaashi--!” is pulled from Bokuto’s throat, desperate. What -- what can he _do_ \-- 

“--Please don’t ask me to stay.” One, two, three more steps. The black cat skitters away from them, as if sensing an impending storm; don’t you know that these things never end with a bang, but a soft, mournful whimper? Akaashi’s crying in earnest. Bokuto’s heart never stops beating. The moon hangs in the rapidly darkening sky, suspended. Waiting.

“Akaashi, I love you, I love you,” Bokuto breathes, and he’s shaking, and he wants to touch Akaashi, to hold him. His feet won’t move. Akaashi must have his reasons. Akaashi’s always right. Bokuto must have done something, he’s always doing something. _Please don’t leave me._ “I’m sorry, Akaashi, if I did anything, I’m so sorry --”

“I believe in you, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi chokes out, and then he’s walking away as quickly as his trembling legs will take him, shoes clicking against the concrete. Bokuto watches him disappear into the horizon of fire, eighteen and unmoored, a ship without an anchor. 

**hold my hand**

The first coffee date after The Ozeki Standoff is a smashing success, one that involves a handful of stuttering apologies, a whole lot of stopping and starting, and a sprinkle of awkward silences, set to the tune of Hanamaki’s cackling in the background. This evolves into a standing date on Thursdays at eleven o’clock which, considering the two of them, seemed inevitable from the very beginning. 

Bokuto takes great pains to arrive early which never fails to delight Akaashi, who still seems in awe of being the less punctual between the two of them. Times have changed; time continues to change. Before they know it, every red-gold leaf has been shed to make way for the coming winter, and even quicker comes the very first buds of spring, sprouting to new life with a vigor that both inspires and terrifies Bokuto.

The thing is, Bokuto’s still not entirely sure what Akaashi wants. The seven missing years between them may as well be an abyss. There’s still a lot he doesn’t know, but over fresh mugs of coffee and free cheese pastries courtesy of Hanamaki, Bokuto begins to form the bits and pieces he’s heard of Akaashi from their mutual friends into something more easily digestible -- Akaashi, literature major. Akaashi, manga editor. Akaashi, notorious cup noodle-eater.

Akaashi, boyfriend of Miya Osamu. 

“Actually, we aren’t together anymore,” Akaashi informs him smoothly, stirring sugar into his coffee with even more vigor. It’s all in the wrist. The milky liquid threatens to slosh out of the cup but somehow never does, as though it were the roiling sea and Akaashi its benevolent god, a promise of _one day, but not today_.

“Oh, I didn’t know you and Myaa-sam had broken up,” Bokuto replies softly, settling back in his seat. He racks his brain for any information about this _very_ interesting development but ultimately comes up with nothing. Surely Kuroo would have said something, or Kenma, or Atsumu, or Hinata? “I’m really sorry, Akaashi.”

“It's nothing, really,” Akaashi says lightly, nimble fingers tracing the rim of the ceramic cup. He glances at Bokuto above his glasses, eyes unreadable. “Osamu and I both reached some very important conclusions and decided that separating was for the best.”

Bokuto feels like he should be apologizing again, but he’s not sure what for. So he responds, “I’m...happy for you?”

“You should be.” A smirk spreads across Akaashi’s face slowly, eyes twinkling as though he knows exactly what he’s doing. _Demon!_ “I came back for you.”

The words are etched into Bokuto’s brain long after Akaashi has left, long after his coffee has gone cold. Hanamaki, who has watched their exchanges with interest every Thursday as though watching his own little romance-drama unfold, eventually makes his way over to clear the table, dish rag slung over his shoulder.

“If you don’t close your mouth soon, you might catch a bug or two,” he says by way of greeting.

Bokuto shakes his head, mouth closing with a clack of teeth. “I think Kenma told me that once,” he responds, dazed. What. Just happened. _What did Akaashi say?_

“What’d Akaashi-san say this time?” Hanamaki asks, stacking their empty dishes and cups onto a tray with surprising agility. “Did he call you ‘handsome’ again?”

“Wh-- No! He told me he came back for me!” Bokuto feels like a toaster that's been dropped into a bathtub full of water. Short-circuiting and burning and dying in the middle of this random cafe.

Hanamaki stares and stares. “I’m not seeing a problem here, bro.” He lifts the tray and jerks his head toward the bar, signaling for Bokuto to follow, so he does. 

“I don’t know if he likes me!” Bokuto bemoans, settling into a stool at the bar. Hanamaki offers him another ‘pity pastry’ -- an almond croissant, this time -- but Bokuto’s far too upset to eat. The implications of Akaashi’s words could make or break their future together, and Bokuto wants a future with Akaashi more than he’s ever wanted anything. More than a gold medal, even though he really wants that too. 

Hanamaki raises a skinny eyebrow at him. “He literally said he came back for you!” 

Bokuto wails, slapping his cheeks with his hands. “That could mean anything!”

“No, it _means_ that he likes you,” Hanamaki corrects. A customer clears their throat, waiting to be helped at the register, but Hanamaki ignores them in favor of resting his elbows on the bar to meet Bokuto’s eyes. “Look, I’m gonna level with you here, bro. You are _too old_ \--”

“Aren’t we the same age--”

“--To be worrying about this shit,” Hanamaki continues blithely. “I have watched you and Akaashi-san flirt every Thursday morning over the past few months. He styles his hair for you, he stares at you like you hung the moon, hell, he even wears cologne! Don’t ask me how I know that. But I think he’s made it very clear that he likes you, bro. What are you afraid of?”

“I’m afraid of… being second to Myaa-sam,” Bokuto mumbles into his palms. His greatest fear, finally out in the open.

Hanamaki’s eyes soften, and he places a comforting hand on Bokuto’s shoulder. “Honestly, I don’t think you ever have to worry about that,” he says, unusually serious. “Akaashi-san came back for you, man. I think that speaks for itself.”

**i promise i won’t let go**

“The sign says,” Akaashi murmurs, bending at the waist to read the placard, “this tank is home to 20,000 fish. Isn’t that amazing, Bokuto-san?” 

Bokuto stares unashamedly, watching as the floor-to-ceiling tank bathes Akaashi in deep glittering blue. He had spent the whole week bragging excitedly to anyone who would listen, but especially to his teammates, _Hey, hey, guess where me and Akaashi are spending our Saturday!_ and, in unison, _The aquarium_ , _you’ve told us already,_ accompanied by Konoha’s answering sigh and Komi and Onaga’s twin glares and the lazy curl of Sarukui’s lip and the flat affect of Washio’s face, as if to say, _Just another day in the life at Fukurodani Academy_ , like a scene from a sitcom. Except the sitcom had been a romance all along, one of those cozy holiday movies that fills you up with an abundance of warmth and leaves you settled and happy, even in the midst of August. 

The excitement has since faded into something much softer, more tender at the edges. Bokuto thinks of how Akaashi’s palm had wiggled its way into Bokuto’s for the entirety of their one-hour-and-fifteen-minute trip, the first time he’d ever done so of his own impulse, in public, and in spite of the sticky summer heat; thinks of the fire in his eyes as he led Bokuto through exhibit after exhibit, rattling off little facts here and there like, _Did you know, Bokuto-san, I think you might like this fact -- did you know that octopi -- yes, that’s the plural of octopus -- did you know that octopi have three hearts?_ Thinks of their hands, pressed together in the touch pool, fingers splayed against the slippery feel of manta rays gliding low in the water.

Thinks of Akaashi, face turned up to the glass, awash in blue like lightning and summer and ocean come alive, and -- _Maybe I could have been an octopus in a past life,_ comes the thought, floating into Bokuto’s mind, _but I don’t need three hearts to think of twenty-thousand reasons to love you._

Instead, he says, tapping at the glass with his fingertips, “Hey, hey, Akaashi, look! Those fish look like a hurricane!”

“Bokuto-san, please don’t tap on the glass,” Akaashi replies primly, squinting up at the silvery mass of tiny fish swirling around the tank in tight formation, a perfect little storm. “Oh, yes. Those are sunfish, I believe.” The storm skitters by, casting flickering spoonfuls of metallic light across Akaashi’s cheekbone, nose, and eye, sending the rest into cerulean shadow. 

_Oh._ It occurs to Bokuto that in all of his seventeen years, nothing has ever been able to strike him speechless quite like Akaashi Keiji. Maybe it’s just because Bokuto has given him the power to do so. Maybe it’s just because Akaashi is special in his own right. Well, whatever it is, Bokuto has already decided that next Valentine’s Day he’ll just chuck his heart in a bento box and hand it to Akaashi, saying, _Here, I think this belongs to you._

**my home will be your home**

Not four months into their reunion, Akaashi asks Bokuto to dinner. Bokuto, predictably, says yes.

(It goes about as well as one would expect from two exes navigating the feeling of wanting to fuck each other.)

Akaashi takes him to a fancy Japanese-French fusion restaurant in downtown, one Bokuto had mentioned wanting to try offhandedly during one of their many cafe dates. They sit across from each other on the train, giving Bokuto the perfect opportunity to ogle at Akaashi in business-casual -- a slim-fitting button-down, navy slacks, long coat. It had taken Bokuto some two hours to raid his closet for what Kuroo had dubbed his ‘lucky date shirt,’ a form-fitting black button-down that molded to his chest and arms and, apparently, always got him laid.

Dinner is enjoyable, but it passes in a blur. Akaashi orders red wine for the table and they get to drinking. When the waiter comes around, Bokuto feels a socked foot sliding up his slacks and rubbing his calf, and he chokes out a, _Beef cheek stew, please,_ while Akaashi casually orders the lamb with couscous, as though his sweaty dinner date isn’t about to go into cardiac arrest. Throughout the night Akaashi’s foot glides higher and higher up Bokuto’s leg until he’s firmly stroking him to full hardness in _public_ , and Bokuto thinks he just might die. He will evaporate into mist, right here in this restaurant, and Akaashi will be to blame. Cause of death: horny.

Bokuto excuses himself for a bathroom break and makes a quick detour to pay the check, much to Akaashi’s immense consternation. He’s still glaring holes into Bokuto’s head until Bokuto rounds the table and leans down to pull out his chair, murmuring, _Dessert at mine?_ It’s some small form of revenge for the hour or so of teasing he’s had to endure, but it works. When it finally sinks in, Akaashi’s hopping out of his seat and fleeing the restaurant as though someone’s lit a fire under his ass.

The train ride back to Bokuto’s apartment is marked by covert touching beneath Akaashi’s coat and Akaashi’s hands shamelessly groping Bokuto’s chest and back and arms. The only other travelers -- a sleeping old man and a couple engrossed in deep conversation -- are unaware of their activities, or maybe they’re just ignoring them. Regardless, Bokuto’s stop can’t come soon enough, and then they’re stumbling out of the train car, wrapped around each other like climbing vines.

Bokuto fumbles with his keys when they reach his apartment door. It’s cold enough that he can see his own breath, but Akaashi’s mouthing hotly at Bokuto’s neck, hand sliding down to cup Bokuto in his slacks, and he’s still fumbling, _god_ , but then he finds his house key, shoves it in the lock, and throws the door open, dragging Akaashi in with him.

They meet in a hard clash of lips and teeth, hot and heavy in the dim of the genkan as they kick off their shoes, trying to stay connected. When Bokuto had first imagined Akaashi entering his apartment, he thought he’d be able to give him a house tour -- this is my kitchen, where I make my protein shakes; this is my living room, where I watch volleyball tapes and K-dramas; these are the pictures on my wall -- look, that’s you and me, and that’s baby Kenma, yes, Kuroo made me a copy; this is my bedroom, where I do bedroom things. 

Instead they stagger into the hallway, crashing into the wall, a whirlwind of hands and lips, warm and wet and everywhere until Bokuto bends down to lift Akaashi by the thighs, effortless, and carry him into his bedroom.

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi moans, and Bokuto tosses him on the bed, ready to devour him. 

  
  


\--

  
  


Bokuto wakes to the warm gold of his sunlit room and the smell of fresh jasmine and rainwater in his nose. Akaashi’s head is tucked into the crook of Bokuto’s neck, his fluffy hair tickling Bokuto’s nostrils, his bony arm thrown possessively over Bokuto’s waist. Bokuto definitely can’t move, not that he even wants to. He could stay here forever, if not for the fact that he desperately needs to pee. He just wants to savor this moment for as long as he can. 

Akaashi twitches, and Bokuto is suddenly, intensely aware of their nakedness when a knee grazes him between the legs, recalling one particular point during the night when Akaashi had taken the reigns and flipped them over to grind on him, the slick-hot slide almost too much for Bokuto to handle after three or four rounds -- truthfully he’d lost count, and he was in that sweet spot between tired and hungry for more when Akaashi had caught him by surprise --

A phone buzzes from the bedside table. When he reaches over to check he realizes it’s not his, but Akaashi’s. 

**Osamu** [8:32 AM]

Hope your date with Bokuto goes well

**Osamu** [8:33 AM] 

You both deserve it, Keiji

**Osamu** [8:33 AM] 

P.S. Rin says hi, and thank you. 

“Koutarou,” comes Akaashi’s sleepy rasp, slightly chapped lips moving against the skin of Bokuto’s very well-defined pectoral muscle, curiously close to his nipple. It kind of tickles, but Bokuto can’t think too hard about it or else he might actually pee. 

“Yes, Keiji?” The name rolls off his tongue sweetly, as though his mouth is savoring the shape of it, a homecoming seven years in the making. It’s good practice, he thinks, for the rest of his life. 

“Come back to bed,” Akaashi grumbles, without so much as a ‘please.’ He tends to forget himself and his manners, Bokuto has noticed, in unguarded moments like these. He’s always been this way. On honest display, just for Bokuto.

Another moment from last night plays like a movie scene in Bokuto’s head -- kneeling over Akaashi, focused on the pink petal-bloom of his lips, parted and panting, as Akaashi looks up at him through the dark wet clumps of his eyelashes, glasses tossed in the general direction of the nightstand, challenging Bokuto to do his worst. 

And then, _Open me up, Bokuto-san,_ Akaashi had breathed, a prayer into the charged air between them, spreading his legs and unfurling like a flower under Bokuto’s hungry gaze.

_That’s not my name,_ Bokuto had chastised quietly, one palm spread wide over Akaashi’s shin, opening him up beautifully; the other had skimmed along his torso, reaching Akaashi’s mouth with ease, thumbing his bottom lip until he accepted it with a very wet, enthusiastic noise, tongue silky against the pad of his finger. _Say my name, Keiji._

“Koutarouuu,” comes a muffled whine, and Bokuto snaps to attention. 

Turning over to face Akaashi, he catches sight of the purpling bruises littering his neck, stark against his skin in the daylight. Hidden beneath the blanket are matching ones, dotted along his hip bones and sucked into the soft skin of his inner thighs. Akaashi had made the sweetest noises with Bokuto’s mouth on him. He looks so cute and slumber-sweet, eyes closed and eyebrows furrowed with the last vestiges of sleep.

“Good morning, Keiji!” Bokuto says at a completely normal volume for waking hours, nosing along Akaashi’s hairline and peppering his cheek and forehead with noisy kisses. Akaashi squirms away, eyebrows drawn further as though startled, but still decides to slide a leg between Bokuto’s and lean into his warmth.

“Can we go again,” Akaashi mumbles, eyes fluttering open hazily. “I wanna go again.”

“Wow, Keiji! Not even a ‘good morning?’” Bokuto can’t suppress the smile that threatens to overtake his face. He really had sex. With Akaashi! And he wants to do it again! Seventeen year-old Bokuto would be very proud, he thinks. _Proud, but ultimately unprepared for Akaashi’s stamina_.

Akaashi pouts, glowering. He's really too easy to rile up in the morning. “You’ll get one after you make me come.” 

“Okay,” Bokuto laughs, wiggling out of Akaashi’s embrace,“but after I pee.” He gets out of bed, shivering in the morning chill, and immediately sets about searching for his clothing. He spots one sock halfway in the closet and the other draped across the foot of the bed, finds his pants crumpled by the bed and his shirt, in a heap, just beyond that. Akaashi’s clothes lay in a haphazard pile near the desk. Bokuto finds his boxers on top of the bookshelf, pulls them on, and rubs his hands over his face and through his hair in an attempt to wake up, then makes the mistake of looking back at Akaashi.

During Bokuto’s search for clothing, Akaashi had rolled over, taking all of the blankets and Bokuto’s heart with him. “Okay. After you pee, then,” he echoes sleepily, burying his face in Bokuto’s pillow with such contentment that it makes Bokuto’s pulse stutter like a flat stone across the surface of a lake. Could be a heart attack or three, one for each of his octopus-hearts. Maybe the price of loving Akaashi Keiji is just a lifetime of cardiac arrests; Bokuto is okay with that. Anyhow, he thinks distantly as he wanders into the bathroom, it’s a good thing he’d thought to wash his sheets.

When he returns, his side of the bed has been carved out. Akaashi, half-sleepy and full of gravity, worms one floppy hand out of his blanket burrito to pat the mattress, and Bokuto feels that familiar tug in his stomach, even as he crawls back into the warmth of Akaashi’s cocoon and wraps himself around him, pressing his chilled fingers and toes into Akaashi’s warmest spaces and basking in his squirming and giggling like a cat in the sun. A warm-up, before rounds six, seven, and eight.

Afterwards, when the sun is spilling even deeper into the room and they’re comfortably spooned together on top of the sheets, sticky and blissfully nude, Akaashi murmurs, not for the first or last time, _Mmm, I love you. Koutarou. I love you,_ like he’ll never get tired of it. 

Bokuto hums a tremulous _Keiji_ in reply, arm slung tight around Akaashi’s waist and lips pressed lazily to the back of Akaashi’s neck -- thinks of a locker room, thinks of a fish tank, thinks of the blue blue boy in his arms. Thinks, _if I were a jellyfish caught in the tide, then you must be the moon_. 

Thinks, _there was never any doubt that I would make it back home to you_.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> WEEEEEE hope u liked it !
> 
> come yell at me + with me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/babyseijoh) ! <3 
> 
> okok bye y'all. see u next time


End file.
